It's A Mixed Up World
by Thennowandalways
Summary: After all, how did a Malfoy go about being in love?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: London Nights**

The lights of London were a godsend at times like this. When you were bone weary and struck down with tiredness. All it ever took him was one walk along the Embankment and he felt the spring twitch back into his step and the fog began to lift from his mind.

The air was crisp down by the river, when it wasn't raining of course, London being what it was. Tonight it was crisp and chilled and dark and it felt as refreshing to him as anything could. A boat sailed past, lights blazing and revellers celebrating whatever it was which had drawn them all together. He didn't envy them, to be so squashed together and observed when you could be alone and free with your thoughts. He had always been a more solitary creature than others imagined and when he had things on his mind it was his own consult he sought.

He was pondering his current project, or his most recent 'Malfoy makes amends' attempt as Potter had so sweetly named it. Of course these days Harry's jibes were strictly in jest and their relationship was well enough established for Draco to laugh it off, or at least give him a tight smile.

An art gallery, it didn't sound like much did it? But so many of the priceless works of art had been destroyed during the wars, and not just in the Wizarding world. It had been Hermione who had opened his eyes to that fact, not surprisingly. She had been his window into the world for the last few years, for good or bad, and his first real attempt at getting his heart broken. But that was over now, and the rejection hadn't been as bad as he'd feared. Maybe this should have comforted him; instead it left him with a sneaking suspicion that he still had no real idea what love was all about.

After all, how would a Malfoy go about being in love? It wasn't as if he had much of an example to follow. Perhaps his parents had been in love once, but by the time he was old enough to understand what he saw, it had been so twisted into something more resembling hate that he would be lost to put their relationship into words.

No, Hermione remained a friend now, as much of a friend as she was to anyone these days. He worried with the rest of them as they saw he diminish year by year. Unlike the others he kept his fears to himself; old habits die hard.

One night they had been discussing her recent job. She had scoured the corners of the world trying to trace a missing sculpture which had been taken from a family home in Saigon. The family had searched for years since a muggle war had torn them from their homes and finally, one way or another, they had wound up at Hermione's office.

"How much is it worth?" He had asked as they shared a drink by the fire.

"Nothing, sickles." She had waved his question aside with a slightly suspect wave and slosh of her glass. The whiskey had caught her now and the passion was back in her eyes. It was a rare event so he let her rant.

"These people lost everything Draco. Like so many of us. War is war, it doesn't matter who's involved, magic or Muggle. People all round the world for hundreds of years have lost everything they possessed. And sometimes it's the little things, just small objects which made their home a home. There was a photo at home..."

Her voice trailed off and she notably pulled herself together with quick shake of her head before continuing.

"There was a photo, above the fireplace. It was beautiful to me as a child, the Scottish Highlands in midwinter, you could almost hear the silence, everything was covered in snow, everything was still and shining, it looked so perfect to me. I remember I would sit on my father's knee as he read to me and gaze up at the photo. I would try and imagine the people that lived in that place. I think it was part of the reason I loved Hogwarts so much, the first time it snowed the land around the castle looked just the same, it could have been taken in that very spot."

She knocked back the rest of her drink and held it out for a refill.

"I'd give anything to have that photo back."

She didn't need to elaborate, it had been lost, like almost everything or everyone she held dear.

He had done some research after that night. If anyone could understand the impact of war, he could. Of course he couldn't empathise with something which inspired happy memories from a loving home, as he had never had one. But he could appreciate the shadows of war on canvass or film, he could feel the pain, or the relief, or the rare moment of something beautiful caught among all the madness.

He had made it a personal quest to seek out anything artists who specialised in this medium, and to finance searches for pieces of importance which had been lost along the way, both Muggle and Magic. He had also financed searches for those inconsequential objects which would give a child who had lost everything, or a family uprooted and cast aside, a positive memory of their home. Of course this was done privately with no song or dance, there were a few who knew. Draco wasn't searching for redemption, not consciously anyway. But there was no doubt that these days his tastes ran a little more on the light side. This subject had struck a chord in him, something he could identify with, something he could help with, it was something he could put his name to and be proud. That was a rare thing in his life, whatever Hermione may say.

Tonight his footsteps had led him back, in a roundabout way, to the Gallery itself. And what a strange creation that had turned out to be. The ground floor was exclusively Muggle. It showcased the best of their finds, paintings alive with emotion or photographs which captured a moment so dramatic, or so emotive, that the person viewing it had trouble tearing their eyes away. In a small anti-room there was a continuous stream of film projected against the wall, film taken by long forgotten heroes who had given their lives in their determination to capture the truth for the world to see, their names scrolled along the ceiling in a never ending circle. These images had been unseen until now, lying forgotten in vaults or disused buildings, some damaged almost beyond repair.

It was the photos which had always captured his attention the most though. Their stillness fascinated him; they were so unlike magical photos. They captured just one moment and left the observer free to wonder at the events, what was happening? Who was this person? What was happening around them as the photo was taken? Of course he enjoyed magical photos and treasured some he had taken of his new found friends, but the Muggle ones somehow made his heart yearn for... well he wasn't sure what, but something anyway. They seemed to speak out to him, eyes watching without moving, a face frozen in a scream or a smile. They broke his heart, what heart he had to break anyway, he wasn't really sure how much he had.

The lights were still on and for a moment he sought out his wand instinctively. But then he heard the distinctive sounds of Clint Mansell as they echoed eerily though the room. Melissa was here, again. Did the woman never leave?

_No, and neither do you, so no need to judge_.

Melissa Walker, war photographer extraordinaire. When he'd met her for the first time he had been braced and ready for the temperamental artists he had grown so used to. He was ready to bite his tongue yet again. It didn't seem to matter if it was the Muggle pieces on the ground floor or the Magical ones up on the 'secret' second floor, their creators were all the same. It was always their work which was the most important, the best, their piece which must have prominence, which must be admired and saluted. Sometimes he wondered if art had always been such an ego driven, commercial enterprise. It was rare that Draco Malfoy could truly be called naive, but on this he realised he had been.

Just when he was about to lose faith Hermione had breezed in one day and thrown down a stack of photos in front of him so beautiful and moving he could hardly look at them.

He had never been to Africa, and looking at this work he couldn't decide if he wanted to leave immediately or avoid the place like the plague. Somehow the photographer seemed to have captured a land so filled with contradictions he could make head-nor-tail of it. There was colour and darkness, smiles and tears. There were boys with guns standing in acres of flowers and a brilliant orange sun shining down on monstrous acts. How was it that so much of the Wizarding war had been fought in darkness and shade while in this world, unfamiliar to him in every way, these things were happening without any camouflage at all?

So when he'd met her first he'd been braced, surely such work would come with one hell of an ego? Wrong again Malfoy, wrong again, one day he would get used to it. She had wondered in one day unannounced and politely enquired if she could see what he had planned for her work?

"Well, you'll have to be a bit more specific seeing as I don't have any idea who you are."

In fairness she had caught him at a rather inconvenient time, head under his desk and arse in the air as he scrabbled around for the contract one of his more infuriating artists had thrown back at him in a fit of rage as he had tried to calmly explain that he would not be naming this room after their work, that they would have to share, just like the others, that this was about something bigger than their fucking enormous ego. OK, so the last part had been less than calm, but he had his limits.

There was only one artist he was interested in seeing centre stage after all...

"Melissa Walker."

"What?" Still sidetracked he hadn't really been listening.

"I'm Melissa Walker, the lady over there said you were Mr Malfoy? Pleased to meet you."

With that he had finally emerged, blinking into the bright lights of the room, dusting himself of and almost squinting at her in suspicion.

"I'm sorry, _your_ Melissa Walker?"

She had kept her hand outstretched to shake his and smiled kindly at him, as if she suspected he might be deficient in some way.

"Yes, were you expecting someone else? I'm sorry, but you are Mr Malfoy, yes? Are you quite alright? Should I perhaps come back another time?"

No doubt the last two questions had been directed at the fact that he was gawping at her like an idiot and still had not had the good manners to shake her hand.

"Yes... no... sorry, gosh I mean..." he had paused then, gosh? Gosh? What was wrong with him, had he suddenly been transported back to the 1920's? Pull yourself together man.

"Ms Walker, I'm terribly sorry, you must think I'm very rude, either that or insane." He flashed what he hoped was a devastating smile as he finally shook her hand, but she seemed unmoved.

"I am definitely Mr Malfoy, but please call me Draco. I've just had rather a bust up with Morwena Costard and I'm afraid it's left me a little bruised. I just thought, well I suppose I thought you'd be older..." He trailed off again and mentally kicked himself. He'd been doing so well and no doubt she would, once again, think him an idiot.

But he was at least being honest. She didn't look a day older than him, and she was so unassuming. On the shortish side, curves in the right places but nothing awe inspiring, a pretty face and an impressive array of unruly auburn hair, but unassuming all the same. She was not the warrior artist he had built up in his mind and she had somehow made him feel very off balance.

That feeling had not quite gone away. They had worked alongside each other for the last two weeks, but had barely said a word. She left him to deal with his artists, and didn't question his frequent disappearances. For this he was grateful, how did you explain to a Muggle that you had to go upstairs because one of the paintings had lost its subject the others were threatening a revolution?

She had found him last night, groaning in frustration as he sat among a pile of Muggle CDs trying desperately to work out a theme for the music which would accompany the film show. He had run his hands through his hair for the millionth time that evening and looked at her dejectedly.

Suddenly, and completely without meaning to, he had been completely honest with a total stranger.

"I think I should put someone else in charge. I'm clearly fucking this up and it's so important that it's right. The artists hate me, I can't figure out the music, the fucking painter has got it into his head to paint that wall pink. Pink I ask you? Didn't he see any of the pictures? This is a nightmare."

He felt bedraggled and beaten and she looked as fresh as a daisy. He wondered again how she had ever gotten close enough to the hell on earth she had captured on film.

"Draco Malfoy, I've never heard such a load of bollocks. Artists hate everyone, luckily half the women want to sleep with you and half the men too probably, so they'll stick by you. There's also the fact that people are already talking about this exhibition as the event of the year. The wall can be painted over, the artists will stay in line because it's in their favour to, and you will make it a success because you have to. Every image on this wall is willing you on, counting on you. And you will NOT let them down."

Ah, right, that was how.

He had gazed up at her from the floor with a rueful smile.

"Right, of course. Thankyou. I needed that."

Then, giving in to his nature, he had given her a lazy smile and a raised eyebrow.

"Half of them want to sleep with me you say? Which half do you fall into?" He didn't know why he was hitting on her, after all she was nothing special. But he did want to see how she would react, and he wasn't disappointed.

"I'm a journalist, not an artist. I'm exempt. Now get off the floor, you look absurd."

Feeling suitably put in his place he pulled himself up and dusted himself off, wondering how it always came to be that he was covered in crap and at a definite disadvantage whenever she was around, he extended the bottle he had hidden behind him when she'd come in.

"Would you like a drink?"

They had sat in semi-silence for nearly an hour, neither quite sure how to start a conversation, both feeling strangely unsure. In the end she had saved the day, and his sanity, pulling out a small compact disk player and placing the CD carefully in the stereo.

"This might help, it's from a film called Requiem for a Dream. I listened to it a lot when I was away. It's called Luz Aeterna"

Slowly, quietly to begin with the sound of strings filled the room. It was a sinister sound, but strangely beautiful too, like her work. He felt suddenly as if he may have caught a glimmer of what it was which made her tick. The music sounded dangerous, but poetic as well. It was dark, it was compelling and it was perfect.

"Melissa, you're a genius. I finally have some direction, this is perfect for the ending, all I have to do now is work out the previous hour." He couldn't help his smile fall, right, problem solved yes? He had an hour to fill, and all he had was one measly piece.

With a smile she had tipped out a jumble of CDs onto his desk.

"The soundtrack to my life, I never go anywhere without it. You'll want to start with The Quiet American, look at The Thin Red Line and definitely pay attention to Blood Diamond. They're all war films, all amazing, all appropriate. I think you'll find what you need."

The next hour had been much less awkward. They had skipped from track to track and he marvelled at the music. How had he gone without this for so long? Come to think of it, with the photographs, and the Thames at night, and now the music, he had an idea he'd missed out on a lot the Muggle world had to offer. She'd seen his look of wonder at looked at him curiously.

"You've never heard any of this?"

"No."

"Have you been living in a bubble?"

"On a slightly different plane to the one you live on I think."

She hadn't replied, she'd merely raised her glass and offered a toast...

"To new experiences."

As their glasses clinked together she looked over his shoulder and her mouth fell open. It had nearly given Draco a heart attack, what on earth had she seen? The possibilities were endless considering what was going on upstairs, no matter how hard one tried to control magic; it had a way of seeping out.

But when he twisted to look in the direction of her gaze he saw nothing but her own work. Once again he was captured by the sight of the images blown up large on the wall, but not so much as to forget the look on her face. He had a serious moment of panic. He had changed the lighting on her pictures earlier in the day, a small bit of magic never hurt anyone and he thought they looked all the more perfect now. But he knew better than to assume she would see it that way. She was his favourite, the most talented of all of them, although he hadn't quite found the way to mention that yet, and now he'd pissed her off. Excellent work.

"What is it? Don't you like it? I'm sorry, I thought if I just adjusted the light it would bring out the shadows in that one but still keep the focus on that woman's eyes. I'll change it back though, I should have asked."

He stood and began to walk towards the wall before a firm hand on his arm stopped him.

"No, don't. They're perfect. I've been trying so long to get them like that, it's just like it was when I took the pictures, every one of them, exactly the same. How on earth...?"

She trailed off, searching his eyes with her own, he hadn't noticed quite how deep a green they were before.

"Magic." He offered with a wink. There was no harm in being honest when he knew she wouldn't believe him.

He sat back down and poured them both another drink, enjoying the way she couldn't tear her eyes from the wall.

"Well you really are a magician, Draco. It's amazing. You'll be pulling a rabbit out of a hat next."

Now it was his turn confused.

"Why would I pull a rabbit out of a hat?"

"You know..." she was at a bit of a loss to explain.

"Is it stuck?"

"What?"

"Is it stuck? The Rabbit?"

"What? No, you know, it's in the hat, it's magic."

"Why would a rabbit be in a hat in the first place? Why would you magic a rabbit into a hat?"

"Well, I don't know. So you could pull it out, I suppose."

"Where would it come from?"

"Where would what come from?" She was almost exasperated now, but her voice still had a trace of humour.

"The rabbit. You can't just pull a rabbit out of thin air you know, it has to come from somewhere."

That was enough for her and her peal of laughter snapped him back into focus, Merlin, he'd be explaining the laws of magic next.

"You're a very strange man Mr Malfoy." She gazed at him from under her eyelashes and he felt an unexpected little jump inside him.

"Very strange..." as she_ walked towards the door. _

"_But I think I like you."_

And now she was back, and the music was playing. And she was painting the wall. The fucking wall which had caused him so much grief yesterday. She was painting it... the wall... He couldn't quite process what he was seeing. This woman had seen him last night at one of this lowest points and she hadn't kicked him when he was down. She had snuck back tonight, when he was out, like the fucking painting fairies or whatever, and done the most practical thing she could think of to help him. She hadn't held his hand and joined his pity party, she'd snapped him out of it and shared a drink, fixed his music problem and now she was painting the wall.

The lights from the gallery shone off her hair, it really was impressive. In fact everything about her seemed that little bit more so tonight. Her jeans highlighted just how her curves were in the right places and her jumper was dark against her milk white skin. And then she turned to face him, guilty smile on her face and a fleck of paint on the end of her nose. The paint steadily dripped unnoticed on to the floor as he gazed at her, surrounded by the images which had led him to be so intrigued by her to begin with.

She was like a force of nature, like no one he'd ever met, nothing he'd ever seen.

_So this was how a Malfoy loved?_


	2. Chapter 2: Pictures and Memories

_**Bear with me on this... it is going somewhere!!!**_

**Chapter 2: Pictures and Memories**

She hadn't needed to see him to know he was there. Years of living off her wits and chasing the wind had tightened her instincts till they were violin string sharp, and she'd learned to pay attention to the tingle on the back of her neck long ago.

It had seemed like the easiest and most pragmatic way to help this strange, troubled man. She'd never seen such a hardened looking creature come so close to panic over a pink wall before, for a horrifying second she'd actually thought he quit this whole endeavour. And she could never allow that.

She'd seen show after show, she'd read every article about the bravery and intrepid nature of the war photographers around the world, she'd lost count of how many times she'd read columns lauding their selfless pursuit of 'the truth', and every last one of them had missed the fucking point.

Then one day she'd trudged her way through another misty London morning, ordered by her agent on her way to yet another 'aren't we so worthy and enlightened' exhibition only to find the actual point standing right in front of her.

She wasn't quite sure what it was, she hadn't been able to put her finger on it then, and God knows she couldn't now, but she knew this man understood what she was doing.

She wasn't brave, she was addicted. She wasn't selfless, she was the most selfish of all, chasing every hint or whisper and forgetting the people she left behind, the ones who worried about the danger she chased.

She wasn't chasing truth, it would take someone omnipotent to even begin to scratch the surface of the 'truth' of what was happening out there. No, all she was chasing was what was. That split second in a person's life that encapsulated their own personal moment of light, or dark, of struggle or hope. She caught one moment in time for ever more and left people to make up their own minds. Time after time people had asked her what her pictures meant, how had she found them, what they said?

Fuck knows, quite frankly.

These pictures, taken in a moment, a moment when the world spun around her and all she knew was how it looked through a lens. Well her subjects weren't looking through a lens were they? No, they were living, breathing, condemned to breathe in the chocking fumes of turmoil for an undetermined time, yet she was the one people looked to for answers.

Really they should be looking to him.

She didn't know what it was, but everything about him spoke to her of subjects past and present. He was tall and proud, and yet twitchy. He spoke like he expected someone to punish him for his own thoughts and yet his tone was one of defiance.

_This is what I think. These are MY words. You can't take them._

She'd seen people like this before. People who looked so lost but so strong as well. Generally it ended in death and bloodshed, she wondered what it was that he had once run from and how he'd survived the fight.

This man was an enigma entirely. And lord knows she wanted to know what thoughts ran behind those blue eyes.

Oh yes, she hadn't missed the eyes, she was a living, breathing, wanting woman after all. She hadn't missed the eyes, or the breadth of his shoulders. She hadn't missed the way his blonde hair fell into his eyes when he was flustered or tired and the way it made him look like a schoolboy; so incongruous in their current setting.

She hadn't missed the way he loomed over her, making her feel just as short as her five foot two inches suggested. But when he stood, looking down on her, it didn't make her feel intimidated, it made her feel alive. That meter of space between them made her blood in her veins zing and left her with a steady hum which she couldn't identify. Not until now, anyway.

Now she knew he was looking at her, staring but not speaking. She drew her hands above her head and stretched her hands up high, trying desperately not to question her motives.

No one knew where this man had sprung from. Oh yes, she'd asked around, after all if something intrigued you then you searched and scrabbled until their history rose to the surface. That was what she did, what she illuminated through a lens. How would he look through glass? She wondered. Would the look in his eyes translate? Would the battle tensed readiness of every fibre and sinew show through the lens the way they captured her imagination in this real world?

But he had no history, none she'd been able to find anyway. He stood in front of her day after day and yet, for all intents and purposes, he simply didn't exist.

God, she hoped he did exist. She prayed he wasn't one of the mirages she would sometimes seek out in her darkest of moments. And let's face it; she was climbing her way out of the darkest of all. All this time, all these assignments, she'd prided herself on her objective ability. Yes, it was sad, maybe sad wasn't a big enough word.

_Horrifying, terrifying, hopeless?_

Whatever the right word, she had taken her pictures and gone out and gotten drunk and done her best to forget. And it had worked.

Not this time though.

This time she had felt the arms of her paper's Foreign Correspondent around her waist as she kicked and screamed and demanded to be allowed to do something...

_Something, anything... there must be something... Christ, of Christ, how can we leave them? They're children, just children... take me, take me instead... Oh Mary, mother of Christ..._

It had been suggested that she might have reached her saturation point. Voices in high places had whispered that their finest talent might need some time back in the real world, the safe world, so quiet in its little bubble.

And one day she'd walked into this studio and all of a sudden the bubble she'd so successfully hidden herself in had felt itself stretch and torn.

And here she was.

Here she was, pretending that she didn't know he was there, but trying to present herself in the best possible way. It hadn't been planned, she'd waited until he'd left for the night and then she'd made her way inside to right the wrongs the emotionally deficient painter had left behind him.

But he'd come back, from wherever he'd been. Where did he go when the lights turned off? Where was home? What was home come to that? Was it anything like the stylish but soulless premium apartment her bosses had deemed fit for her?

_You're a young woman, live a young woman's lifestyle for a while. It might help you get things back in perspective._

Well it had. One's man's perspective, however, was unfortunately the same as the next. She'd found hers; this city was bullshit. The people were vacuous nothings and every one of her friends seemed to spend their days chained to a computer and their nights high as a kite. Why in Christ's name was she being grounded when she was the only one of them who saw the situation for what it was?

Gradually though, over the last few weeks, she'd begun to sneak a glimpse of what they might have meant. These men in their Ivory Towers might have more awareness of how she felt than she'd given them credit for.

How strange to find her place here, in a small gallery off the Embankment with a man she couldn't begin to understand.

To begin with she had written him off as one of the many foppish 'Hugh Grant' Public School boys who were too stupid to get a real job, so they'd settled on art. Well that impression had lasted all of five minutes. But still, he'd been nothing but eye candy to begin with.

Then, one short week ago she'd wondered in off the street, ignoring the closed sign and making for her favourite photo in search of a shred of solace.

But he'd arrived before her.

In all the time she seen her work plastered on walls across the world, beset against incongruous backdrops so far removed from their subjects, she'd never seen anyone else look at them they way he did.

He was completely still, she would have likened him to a statue if it wasn't for the small muscle working overtime against his clenched jaw. His eyes were wide, but not in surprise, it was recognition she saw. She'd felt so intrusive, watching him in this public space as he stared at the photo like it was his own memory. But as she'd tried to oh so stealthily back away his rich, clipped tones had stopped her in her tracks.

"_Do you know you spend your whole life watching your step, calculating the worth of every word? What can it bring you? What can it cost you? Day after day you turn your back on anything you might have wanted for yourself in search of the bigger picture. Day after day, year after year. Then one morning you wake up and realise that the bigger picture is total bollocks. You realise that you're on the wrong side, that you've forgone your whole childhood for something that means nothing."_

The photo stared back at them both; a teenager with his face raised to the heavens. He had a look of wonder which shone across his face as if she'd caught the exact second that he realised that there was hope, mixed with the pit of loss which told him that he'd wasted his life so far on something which never quite was.

"_Of course it doesn't matter that you're still a child yourself. The only people that matter are also children, and they're the only ones who don't make allowances for youth. I never really thought about how many people knew that feeling until I saw your work."_

He turned and faced her for the first time, staring her straight in the eye, his face a mixture of raw emotion and guarded secrets.

"_Thankyou."_

And that had been the moment for her. That had been the instant when this strange, unearthly being had captured her in his web, so tight and so firm. And let's face it; she wasn't exactly struggling to escape.

And now he'd left. She'd felt his gaze on her for five solid minutes. And just when she felt that it would be unbelievable to claim she didn't know he was there, just when she'd been ready to turn herself and her carefully guarded heart around, he'd left.

He'd gone without a word. Vanished would be a better word for it. One moment there, next moment gone. Who the hell was this guy?


	3. Chapter 3: Conflicted

_Hi all,_

_For any of you who haven't read Then, Now, Always my description of Hermione might come as a surprise. If you want to find out more please read the story as this will run along the same time line and there will be references to that story throughout this one... but if you don't feel up to 97,000 words this will probably work as a stand alone!_

_Thanks, please review as always!_

_xx_

**Chapter 3 Conflicted is an Understatement**

So, back to the Embankment it was, but this time he just kept on walking.

Walking and walking, feet pounding the pavement in a steady and inevitable rhythm, chanting the words he was steadfastly not hearing, speaking, thinking...

_You want her, you want her, you want her._

Of course he fucking wanted her, he had eyes right? Eyes which stared and hands which ached to touch, lips which would kiss and taste if he allowed them even a moment of self determination.

But that wasn't the point was it? No, the point was that she was a Muggle.

A totally oblivious fucking Muggle.

And how on earth did their two worlds fit together?

Oh he knew it happened, Severus had been half Muggle hadn't he? And a finer Wizard you wouldn't find. But how would it work for him? In what strange and twisted reality could he take a woman from this foreign world and explain to her who he was, what he'd done, how he'd lived his days under a mistaken mantra which had taken countless lives.

How he'd been so conflicted and unsure, that even though he knew what a murderous, evil bastard he was he had mourned his father from the minute he'd cast the killing charm upon him.

How he still couldn't make it through the night without waking in a cold sweat, just glad to be pulled out of the hell of his dreams.

How, like the Angel of Death, Granger, he refused to let anyone sleep next to him, scared that they would see just how damaged he was. That was, of course, if they hadn't already guessed from the tremor in his hands and the occasional twitch in his eyes.

The rhythm of his feet against the hard, grimy pavement had altered. The beat had shifted, but so slightly he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't simultaneously raised his eyes from grey concrete and taken in his surroundings.

Merlin, had he walked that far? Grand city buildings had given way to softer, but no less magnificent, Townhouses. These streets were always peaceful at night time. Money bought that kind of environment, he should know. Row upon row of black railings stretched before him, stark in the contrast against the white paint of these castles of self importance.

One house seemed to shine brighter than the rest, he wondered if the Muggles nearby had any idea that it was a result of the copious and powerful protection charms and wards cast on this particular house. No, he was sure that the people who shared this building merely congratulated themselves on their good taste, after all hadn't they chosen the most attractive house on the street?

He knew why she lived here of course, it was a beautiful spot, the rippled softly against its edges and the park allowed just enough darkness to highlight the stars above, a rare feat in this busy city. But ultimately she was here because in this Chelsea oasis she could remove herself from the inevitable gazes which would follow her through any magical community.

Of course he'd come here, where did he always turn up with his questions and doubts?

This was where he'd started this journey, in her large memorial of an office, surrounded by photos and memorabilia of a past they had barely shared. He didn't know why he was the only one allowed in there. Granger was perceptive when it came to others, if not herself, and perhaps she knew that seeing the memories of those happier times had helped to ease his conscience.

_Patricide._

It was such a clinical word for an act so violent. He'd asked himself countless times, and her on occasion, if perhaps he shouldn't have let the bastard live. If he shouldn't have been made to pay for his crimes?

But then he'd look the pictures and remember how his father had mercilessly tortured and murdered some of these children. He'd recall the look of loathing and rage on the man's face as he'd pointed his wand at Granger, intent on causing as much pain as he could before he blasted her from the pages of history.

He'd remember how it felt to be on the receiving end of that wand, or the fist, or belt...

He'd remember how the children they had been had once worried about nothing but Quidditch scores and illicit nights spent snogging in the Astronomy tower.

He'd remember how much he'd hated them all then, and how much he loved them now.

And he remembered the look on his father's face when he'd died. Sheer arrogant disbelief plastered across the hateful features of a man who sought to control and destroy him, inch by inch and day by day.

No, he'd done the right thing, the only thing. Men like Lucius didn't pay for their crimes, they wriggled and squirmed, and if that failed they fled. He'd done the only thing there was to ensure that his father's particular brand of evil had been defeated.

But he doubted he would ever feel good about it. Acceptance he could strive for, righteous justification may even, one day, be within his grasp.

But to feel good, happy, proud? That would never be his lot.

"Draco?"

She was stoned, again, definitely. Her voice had that mellow, soulful quality which lacked the sometimes brittle, often unsteady attributes it had in her more sober moments. Except when she was singing, of course, Potter wrote, she sang and as far as he could make out Remus Lupin shagged his way out of the black moments. He painted, of course no one knew that, not even Granger, his greatest confident.

"Granger."

She didn't bother to ask what in the Gods names he was doing at her door at one in the morning, any more than he would think to ask why she didn't try and get through a night without running headfirst into the welcoming arms of which ever mind altering substance she had laid her hands on this time.

No, they didn't ask and they didn't tell. They were just two people existing under one sky. They were the only two people under this particular sky actually. Potter had married that sweet but very clearly mental Lovegood, the twins would always have each other. Lupin had his son and his ex wife if rumours were to be believed, he certainly wasn't fucking Granger anymore.

He and Granger had each other, and the roof terrace above her apartment, a small sanctuary under their own private sky. A sky which stretched just as far as their regrets. That is to say, infinitely.

And they had these chairs, these mystical battered old chairs which seemed to have magical qualities hidden by their banal appearance.

This was the only place he could achieve any kind of clarity. The Embankment was good for questions, but this place was good for answers. Her study was good for reflection and his room, while he was buried to the hilt inside someone bland and entirely unimportant was good for forgetting, if just for a moment.

This was the way he compartmentalised his life these days. In areas and stages, each one designed for a specific purpose.

The morning was for exercise, it was for pushing himself until the burn and the sweat obliterated whichever terror his hateful subconscious mind had seen fit to inflict on his the night before.

Lunch time was for work, the afternoon and early evening were for his friends, and attribute he never thought he'd claim but one which he now held on for dear life to. Evenings like the great Sirius Black's return celebrations last night. But even then he'd been forced to retreat once evening turned into night, like Cinder... whatever that Muggle woman's name was.

Because the night was for three things and three things only, fucking, walking and, of course, the gallery.

But it wasn't a sanctuary anymore was it? Now _she _was there painting over pink walls, and stretching her damn arms above her head until he'd had to actually leave his own gallery to stop himself grabbing her and running his tongue over the soft expanse of skin she had unwittingly exposed to his lecherous gaze.

What a fabulous first move that would have been, one more likely to have her screaming to the Muggle police than fall willingly into his arms

Not that he wanted her in his arms of course, well he did want her, but he couldn't have her.

"There's a girl, Granger."

He eased himself back into the chair and wordlessly accepted the joint she offered him, he'd never claimed to be a fucking saint after all.

"A girl wondered into my Gallery. She's a Muggle. I think I might love her."

Granger, for one miraculous second, was speechless. She looked at him as if this was the last thing she'd expected.

Of course, it probably was.

"Oh... well...fuck."

"Yes, I thought you might say that. It rather seconds my sentiments exactly."

"Drink?"

"Merlin, yes."

"Right."

"Right."

For the first time this evening she looked him straight in the eye as he tried in vain to sweep his infernal hair from his eyes. Eyes which he suspected may look just as panicked as he felt.

For one, brief second he saw the old Granger in front of him, the one that popped out every so often to remind everyone that she was still in there somewhere.

She leaned forward and placed the sweetest of kisses against his forehead, murmuring softly against his furrowed brow;

"Oh, Draco."

He felt a little of the tension leave his shoulders and wondered, not for the first time, at the marvel of friendship.

He'd be dead without this girl, now maybe she could teach him how to live the life she'd saved.


End file.
